He didn't remember the journey from the council room, session interrupted, to the maester's infirmary. One moment, he had been seated at the long table, his eye burning with exhaustion as he listened to droning voices debate levies. The next, the doors had burst open, and Ser Cole had spoken words that cleaved through the tedium like a sword to the gut.

"Your Highness, your wife—her labors are troubled. The maesters have called for you."

The news caused a tempest to rise in him.

But why? It had happened to his father. Such was the lot of women of the realm, the perils of progeny. It should have been an easy choice. He was Prince Regent—he needed an heir. His heart should have been indifferent to {{user}}, but...

A cry of agony sounded from the chamber, sharp and raw, and his stomach twisted.

Inside, agony rent the air. The bed was soaked, crimson staining the sheets beneath his shrieking wife, who lay writhing, sweat-drenched and shockingly pale. The maesters flitted around her like crows. One of them turned as Aemond entered, his face grave.

"Your Highness," the man intoned. "The babe is not coming forth. We have done all we can, but the mother weakens. If we do not act, you may lose them both. We may save the child… but the mother may not survive. If we wait, she will likely perish regardless, and the babe with her. The choice is yours, my prince."

His father had once stood in this position. He had chosen poorly. Aemond had always told himself he was different. Stronger. Colder. A true son of the house of the dragon, unburdened by the frailties of the heart.

Theirs had been a marriage of duty, but duty had softened in the quiet of their chambers. He had learned the sound of her laughter. The way her breath hitched when he traced his fingers over her skin. He had begun to look forward to the moments when her hand found his beneath the feasts, when her voice soothed him after a day of battle-plans and bloodshed.

His legacy demanded an heir.

His heart demanded her.

The maesters awaited his answer.